Well pleased to see her songs the joy Of that poor lonely shepherd boy. "Tis said, and I believe the tale, That many rhymes which still prevail, The fifth was from a western shore, Where rolls the dark and sullen Orr. Of peasant make, and doubtful mien, Affecting airs of proud disdain; Wide curled his raven locks and high, Dark was his visage, dark his eye, That glanced around on dames and men Like falcons on the cliffs of Ken. Some ruffian mendicant, whose wit No one could read the character, If knave or genius writ was there; But all supposed, from mien and frame, From Erin he an exile came. With hollow voice, and harp ill strung, Some bungling parody he sung, Well known to maid and matron gray, In wonder how the strain would end. But long ere that it grew so plain, They scarce from hooting could refrain; And each to others 'gan to say, "What good can come from Galloway ?" F Woe for the man so indiscreet! For bard would be a name unmeet For self-sufficient sordid elf, Whom none admires but he himself. Unheard by him the scorner's tongue, With many an awkward gape the while, Till round the throne the murmurs ran, Till ladies blushed behind the fan; The sixth, too, from that country he, Where heath-cocks bay o'er western Dee; Where Summer spreads her purple screen O'er moor's where greensward ne'er was seen; Nor shade, o'er all the prospect stern, Save crusted rock, or warrior's cairn. Gentle his form, his manners meet, The eighth was from the Leven coast : The rest who sung that night are lost. Mounted the bard of Fife on high, Bushy his beard, and wild his eye : His cheek was furrowed by the gale, And kindness welcomed as he came. Yet spoke to all that viewed him nigh, That more was there than met the eye. Some wizard of the shore he seemed, Who through the scenes of life had dreamed, He deemed that fays and spectres wan Held converse with the thoughts of man; In dreams their future fates foretold, And spread the death-flame on the wold; |